Time⁽⁰⁾:  Becky wows Palm Springs.  Faro gets shot.  Key word:  Ricochets.  

When Becky went home to Palm Springs, it surprised just about everybody. They didn't think she'd ever show her face in that town again. The old timers looked at each other and said, "Isn't that the _____ girl, what's her name?" And the other old timers replied, "Yeah, that one. Becky Something. The one who died of heart failure when she was a kid." That's why they thought she'd never show her face again. They thought her face was worm food.

Then, they'd begin to wonder if she was the _____ kid, after all. "Maybe she just looks like the _____ kid," they'd say. "After all, the _____ kid's dead."

That was the old timers talking. Everyone else was talking because they never expected to see anyone as beautiful as Becky in Palm Springs. Up to that point, beauty, in Palm Springs, had been a relative thing, which is to say that one could be pretty ugly and, if one wasn't as ugly as everyone else, one was beautiful. The beautiful people in magazines were just an abstraction to the citizens of Palm Springs...artist's renderings.

Then, along came Becky. Truly beautiful Becky. And, the people said, "Oh!" and held their breath as she passed. One kid even asked for her autograph.

But, the old-timers remembered the beautiful sixteen-year-old who died.

Becky came to Palm Springs because of her illegitimate baby girl, who'd been adopted by a cowboy from Palm Springs. Becky was nervous about the idea, but she'd had no choice. She was an unwed mother and a billionaire's former lover, and she was nowhere near forgiving herself for what she'd done to Harvey's wife (nothing, she'd done it to Harvey). She planned to go to Palm Springs anonymously (as if that was possible) and get a job as a waitress and keep an eye on her daughter and do penance. But, then the cowboy sought her out and said his name was Faro, and he asked her to come live in Palm Springs and take care of her daughter for him. She wouldn't have to waitress, he said, if she didn't mind eating baked beans all the time.

"Sundays, too, Faro?"

"Yep."

"How can you stand it?"

He didn't say anything.

"...but, no waitressing?"

"That's right, ma'am."

Becky gazed at her little girl, nestled against Faro's starched white shirt. She had the end of his neckerchief clutched in her little fist. She didn't act like she missed her mommy much.

"One rule," she said. "She's not allowed in the barn." Becky wasn't sure why she said that.

The cowboy smiled indulgently. "Ya kin make all th' rules ya like, ma'am. Kids'll always find a way around 'em. But," he added, "it's okay by me."

So, Becky moved to Palm Springs and wowed the town for fifteen years and raised her daughter for Faro and worried, inexplicably, about the barn. The whole town was crazy about Becky, whom they deferred to on almost everything. The mayor always asked her opinion on town matters even though she wasn't on the town counsel and never tried to be and never even answered his questions. He just felt driven to ask, it seemed...and to hear her say, "It sounds like you've given this a lot of thought, mayor."

All in all, it wasn't a bad life.  They hardly ever saw Faro, who was always out ridin' the range, so it was mostly just Becky and Becky together.  Everyone assumed Becky was Becky's mother, and she didn't try to rectify that fallacy.  In a way, it was true, since she was the one raising her.

Faro was not an indulgent, nor even attentive, father. He often seemed surprised to find himself there, as if he'd inadvertently turned left instead of right and found himself in the yard. He could never remember their names, but he did know that they had the same name.

"So, that's why you named her Becky? So you'd only have to remember one name?"

He grinned. "Clever a' me warn't it, Vickie."

"Becky."

"Thet's what I meant." he said.

He always brought Becky gifts; little boxes that didn't open, but you could put anything in them, even a whole bike; a bike that never had flats (a must in Palm Springs--with stickers everywhere and no sidewalks), the real Bible with its blank pages, and for Becky, a picture of herself (only Faro called the woman in the picture Anna) standing with a handsome, but lost-looking man, "...so you can keep track. No, no, don't thank me." One day, shortly after they moved to Palm Springs, Becky noticed a baby boy in Anna's arms. She was sure the baby hadn't been there before. She guessed that Anna had just had a baby, too. As time went on, and the couple in the picture grew older, so did their son. Becky wondered what his name was--had he been named after his father?--while Becky just thought he was cute and was secretly in love with him.

When she was nine, Becky fainted while she was playing in the barn with another child.

"I told you to stay out of there!" Becky stormed, hugging her daughter with the intensity only an inexplicably afraid mother has. "What were you kids doing in there? Never go in there again!"

But, it was too late. Within a week, Becky and Faro were sitting in Dr. Lamb's office being told that Becky had congenital heart disease and "sorry, but the prognosis is not good."

Faro jerked his head up. "Not good? You mean she's gonna die?"

Dr. Lamb nodded solemnly. Becky sucked in her breath.

Faro eyed the doctor skeptically. "Are you sure, doc? 'Cause--"

"I'm sure. It's not a difficult diagnosis."

Faro's eyes narrowed. He rubbed a big hand over his face and wound up scratching a rough patch of skin under his jaw. "Dang it. If this ain't a walk in a bog, I don't know what is. Did thet young fella do somethin' ta her in th' barn?"

"For heavens sake, man!  Of course not!  It's congenital!"

"Just askin'," Faro said. "Goldern it, now I got ta--" He looked up at Dr. Lamb. "How long's she got, doc?"

"Maybe five or six years. I'm sorry."

Becky had buried her face in her hands. Faro patted her on the back with about as much solicitousness as if she was a calf he'd just branded.

"There, there," he said, distractedly.

Becky knocked his hand away and ran from the room to find her dying daughter.

"...not pleasant," Dr. Lamb said. "It's never pleasant." He made it sound like they had ruined his day.

"Yeah. Well thanks, doc," Faro said, extending his hand.

He found Becky outside hugging Becky who had no idea why she was being inexplicably hugged in broad daylight on Palm Springs's main drag. She was keeping an eye out for her friends. If any of them showed, she could always knee her mom in the stomach and get away.

"How's my prognosis?" she asked Faro. Lamb had used that word while he was examining her. She assumed it was a body part.

"Yer prognosis is fine, Patty--"

"Becky."

"Thet's what I meant. It's fine," he said. "Don't worry about it."

But, Becky wasn't easily fooled. She knew her prognosis could stand improvement.

The next day, Faro pulled her up behind him on his white horse and they rode off towards the distant mountains. "...back before sundown," he called to Becky, who was watching them go from the porch.

It was a fine day for a ride. A Wyoming day, which meant everything was a little bigger than normal and crystal clear and in plain colors, not colors watered down by humidity or muddied by smog. It was late September. It was cool, but not yet cold. It was a school day, but Becky didn't have to go to school. It was a fine day. Becky was mad as hell.

They rode toward the Big Horn mountains for quite awhile before Faro spoke. "What're ya so mad about, Cindy?"

"Becky." she snarled.

"Thet's what I meant. Anyways--"

"--'cause I have to die!" she cried. "Young," she added to prevent him from telling her that, "ever'body has ta die" which she knew damn well and which wasn't the point. The point was, she'd had plans.

"What plans?" he asked, reading her mind.

"I don't know." She knew. It just wasn't that easy to talk about them. "I mean, I know but...."

"...it just ain't thet easy ta talk 'bout 'em," he said. "I know." He raised a hand to point out a golden eagle that had landed on a dead cottonwood.

"Big deal," she growled, already watching it. She thought it was a big deal, but she didn't say it like that.

"So...these plans. Any of 'em involve ridin' hossback 'n ropin' steers 'n all?" Faro asked hopefully. He wouldn't have minded if his kid wanted to grow up like her old man.

"No."

Faro waited for her to expand upon that answer like any normal person would. Finally, he gave up waiting. "Do you feel like tellin' me what them plans do involve? Just fer th' sake a' conversation?"

"What difference does it make? I won't get to do any of them."

"Jus' fer th' sake a' conversation, Millie. It ain't gonna hurt ya none."

"Becky."

"Thet's what I meant."

Becky held out another 30 seconds or so, just for the sake of her pride. "I wanted to write books."

"Books? 'Bout what?"

"Everything...people and animals and...I don't know. Everything!"

"Frog blankets? Could ya write 'bout 'em?"

"Frog blankets?"

"I'd like ta read a good book 'bout 'em. Also 'bout time. The true story. None a thet bullbeep 'bout Time Zero."

"I don't know the true story about time. Except that I don't get any."

"There. That's jus' th' problem. Ever'body thanks they ain't got none. They really mean ta say they ain't got enough and even thet ain't right...ever'body's got plenty. Somebody needs ta tell 'em how it works."

"Well, it won't be me. I'll be dead."

"Yup. 'Spect ya will," Faro agreed. "--thet bad ticker a' yer'n."

"--bad ticker. That's me...."

They rode in silence for a while. Presently, Becky put her arms around her dad's waist and he felt her head fall against his back and then the wetness through his shirt. Her tears. He just let her cry. He cried himself. Maybe the horse did, too.

Eventually, Faro handed a big red bandana over his shoulder. "Don't be wipin' yer nose on my shirt, Ginny." he warned.

"Becky."

"--what I meant." He waited while she wiped her eyes and blew her nose and handed back the soggy hanky. Faro stuffed it into his hip pocket. (At least, he didn't retie it around his neck.) "Wa'l, what're ya gonna do after yer dead? Got any plans?"

(What a question, Faro! How insensitive can you get?)

"Plans?"

"--cain't jus' lie in a box, ya know. Ya gotta do somethin'."

"Uh...."

"I was jus' thinkin' ya could write them books after yer dead."

"Uh...."

"Think 'bout it, kid. Might even be easier! If'n ya git a li'l distance 'twixt yerself 'n mortality, ya gotta see it better, right? Step outside a' time...."

"But, I'll be dead!" she cried. "Dead people don't write books!"

"Sez who?"

"Says me!"

Faro appeared willing to accept that. At least, he didn't argue with her. They rode for awhile. He pointed out a small herd of antelope grazing on a rise a mile or so away.

"Big deal."

The antelope edged away from them, as antelope will. They like to keep a fair distance between themselves and people. And coyotes.

"Name one." She said suddenly.

"Cain't."

"Why not?"

"Dead people don't write books. Ya said so yerself."

"I thought you knew of one. I thought that's why you said it." She sounded kind of disappointed.

"Nope. Never heerd a' sech a thang. Not a bad idee, though."

"No...not a bad idee...."

The white horse suddenly broke into a full gallop, carrying them at a dizzying pace toward the Big Horns. Faro let him. Now and then, a horse has got to run...has got to fly.

"But, how could you read a dead person's book? Who'd publish it?" Becky yelled over the thundering hooves.

"There's a fella named Pear Tree in New York!" Faro hollered. "He'll publish anythin'! He even published one on solo org--wa'l never mind."

The horse broke his stride just then, and began to slow down. Becky was thrown forward against Faro's back by the sudden deceleration. Silently, they rode out the canter, then the jarring trot. Soon, the horse was walking slowly beside the Big Horn River. They looked for a place to get a drink.

"Can dead people be in love?"

"Whoa." The white horse pulled up and Faro helped Becky dismount. "Yep, 'course they kin."

"Can they be in love with live people?"

Faro swung out of the saddle. "I 'spect. Sounds kinda morbid, though. Why?"

"I was just wondering."

They followed the big horse down the river bank and stood there, together, watching him drink.

"Can I have your bandana?"

Faro gave it to her. Becky stooped and wetted the cloth in the river, then used it to mop her face. "Can dead people have babies?"

"Wa'l sure...sorta...I guess." Faro looked at her quizzically. "Yer askin' a lot a questions don't make no sense, Mary."

"Becky."

"--what I meant. Love after dyin'? Babies from dead folks? What's really on yer mind? Ya sure they ain't somethin' I should know about? What about thet young fella in th' barn?"

But, Becky turned away from him and stared up river. "No. Nothing. Leave me alone."

Faro watched her a moment, then turned away. He scooped up a hat full of water and sloshed it over his face. He scooped up several handsful of water and drank. "Let's go then." Retrieving the reins, he led the beautiful white horse back up the river bank.

When they were mounted up and riding alongside the river, Becky spoke again. "You could keep me from dying, couldn't you Faro? If you wanted to."

"Nope."

"Nope? You couldn't?"

"Nope."

"Shit." That wasn't the answer she'd expected.

"No cussin'."

"Shit." She repeated defiantly.

"Whoa!" Faro jerked the horse to a halt. "No cussin' allowed, youngster! Ya know th' rules in our house!"

"We aren't in the house. Anyway, I don't care! You're lying to me, you...son-of-a-bitch!"

"Stop thet! I ain't neither! They ain't nuthin' I kin do 'bout it."

"Goddamn you, Faro! Go to hell, you bastard!"

"Here now!"

"You won't even help your own daughter! You miserable puke!"

"I cain't help ya! I lost track a' ya fer a second 'n suddenly yer up fer dyin'! It's outa my hands!"

"You lost track--?!"

"Lost track! Somethin' musta happened in thet barn! Thet's why ya gotta tell me--

"No! It's none of your business what I do in the privacy of my barn!"

"I gotta know!" he flared back. "It ain't jus' fer you. I gotta know what thet young fella's been up to!"

"Then go ask him!  If he wants to blab our private business I can't stop him!"

"All right!  I will!"

"All right!"  Becky sat rigid and still behind him.

"I will!" Faro sat rigid and still, too.

"So, go! Go do it!"

"I'm gonna!"

"Now!"

"Now?"

"Go now! You can do it, can't you? Go!"

So, He did. Becky and the wonderful white horse grazed and ate an egg salad sandwich and she died on her fifteenth birthday. When Faro got back, she was as mad as ever and as big as a house. They'd packed too much food.

"Boy, yer a corral-full, ain't ya?. Ya didn't have ta eat th' whole dern picnic," he said, rummaging through the saddlebags for a morsel.

"What'd he say?"

"He said nuthin' happened. Ya were just bein' kids...smokin' 'n all."

"I knew he wouldn't tell. I knew...."

"Tell?  He told me everythin'!  Thar ain't nuthin' ta tell!  Ya smoked a bunch 'a them filthy weeds 'n fainted.  He thinks yer makin' a big deal outa nuthin!  So do I, fer thet matter."

"He didn't tell you everything, then."

"I think I know when someone's holdin' back, Tessie."

"Becky."

"--what I meant. Anyways, he told me ever'thin'...unless mebbe he forgot...."

"--forgot?" (Most people would rather be hated than forgotten, in case you didn't know.) "How could he forget...me?"

"I said, mebbe...."

Becky turned to him. "You've got to let me talk to him.

But, Faro was adamant. "Nope. No, sirree. Never. Cain't be done."

"You've got to! He can't have forgotten--!"

"He's grown up, now! He's got work ta do 'n ya cain't be botherin' him."

"But I have to know! He can't have forgotten me!"

"Oh, he ain't forgotten ya! Has a little trouble with yer name, is all." Faro pondered a bit. "Thet seems ta be a li'l trait a yers...."

"My name?  He doesn't remember my name?"  Becky rushed toward him.  "But, we were in love!  Please, Faro!  Help me!  I've got to talk to him!"

"Whoa!" Faro cried, backing up quickly to avoid being crushed by his fat daughter. "Love? I don't think-- Now stop! Oof!"

Becky, once she got a head of steam, wasn't easy to stop. She ploughed into Faro like a heathen running from Sunday and down he went.

"Here now!"

And, up she came, his big pearl handled revolver in her hands. "Take me to him, Daddy! I'm warning you! Take me to him or I'll shoot!"

"Put it down, uh...uh...Billie--er, Annie--er--"

"Becky!"

"--what I meant. Thet ain't no kid's cap pistol. Put it down, 'n we'll talk."

Becky thumbed back the hammer. "No! Take me to him!"

"I cain't! Ya gotta understand! It's th' Plan! I cain't jus'--"

"Take me!"

"Lizzie! Fer Pete's sake, don't shoot thet--!"

"It's Becky! Becky!"

"--what I mea--"

KAPOW!

KAPOW! KAPOW!

KAPOW!

ZING!

ZING! ZING!

ZING! (Ricochets.)

"Faro? Faro?"

Faro groans.

"Faro? Can You hear me? It's Becky."

Faro groans again. He lifts his head. The ground starts spinning. "Oh...oh..." Quickly, he closes his eyes and lowers his head to the security of mother earth until the vertigo passes.

"Do You need help? What can I do?"

Faro shakes his head weakly...and slowly. His brain feels like a rock in a saddlebag. "Hold on...."

"Where's Becky?"

He moves his head again. He wishes Becky would shut up and leave him alone.

"You didn't shoot her, did you?"

The word 'shoot' dislodges a vague memory in Faro's rock. He opens one eye. "Sh...shoot?"

"--with this," Becky says.

Faro's laying on his side. With his one open eye, he sees a lot of dirt and a dead weed and a gun. Becky's hand enters Faro's field of vision. She's reaching for the gun. "Uh! Nuh, uh!" he grunts loudly. He doesn't want her to touch the gun. It would have been easier on him to just say 'Don't' but all he thought of was 'Uh...' Thankfully, Becky gets the picture. She pulls her hand back.

Now, Faro starts moving his hand toward the pistol. He pushes it slowly over the earth, over the weed, until he can hook a finger into the trigger guard. Then, he pulls it back over the earth, dragging the weed right into his nose.

"Aaaachew!"

Ragweed.

"Let me help you!"

"No! Don't touch--"

Faro gets the gun right up to his nose and sniffs it.

"Aaaachew!"

Dust. And gunpowder. It's been fired. He groans.

"What's the matter? What happened?"

Groaning, Faro rolls slowly onto His back, keeping His head firmly against solid ground. Now, He can see Becky towering above Him like a mountain about to fall. "...fired th' pistol," he whispers hoarsely. "...couldn't stop 'er."

"She shot you!?"

He grimaces as if to say 'what does it look like'?

"My Becky shot a man?"

Faro slowly raises his head. This time the ground just splashes a little and floats up and down like dirty water. He raises himself to his elbows. "...jus' a cap pistol," he mumbles as he looks carefully around. "...coulda been worse." He feels his forehead with his hand. "Ohhh...."

"--but, Becky! Where is she? Where's my little girl?"

"--ain't so little, no more. 'Bout the size of a show hawg, last I seen. Ya packed too much food." He makes a feeble gesture encompassing all of creation. "...pro'ly around here some'eres."

"But, where?"

Faro doesn't answer. He extends a hand across his chest and picks up his cap pistol. An inch or so of caps extends above the hammer. He raises the gun close to his face and inspects the spent caps. Shaking his head, he lowers the gun into its holster.

"...no tellin'...when somebody starts shootin' like thet, what'll happen. Them dang ricochets..." Groaning, he struggles to his feet. The splashing ground has settled down...more like thick mud. He glances down at his boots to see if they're ruined and is surprised to see that he's standing on solid ground.

Becky is alarmed. "You mean, she might have hurt herself?"

"Naw...it's jus' a cap pistol, like I told ya. Whoa!" Faro loses his balance. Quickly, Becky steadies him. She puts an arm around his waist. He puts a hand on her shoulder. "What she's pro'ly done, is got 'erself birthed all over again--"

"Birthed! You mean, born?"

"Once fer ever' shot she took, I'm guessin'. 'N one a' them caps was a double. Twins." He shakes his head. "Gonna be a lot a' Trixies 'round here fer awhile."

"Beckys."

"--what I meant. Come ta thank of it, ain't ya got a twin sister?"

Becky looks up, alarmed. "You mean, you think I'm--"

He shrugs.

"No. That's imposs--!"

He points a finger at her like a gun. "Bang, bang. Heard it m'self. It was a double."

"But, that would mean I'm my own...my own...."

"Best not ta thank about it," Faro offered. "When it gits complicated like thet, I jus' put it outa my head. Don't make no difference no how...since they's no such thang as time."

"I don't feel so good."

"Come on." Faro looks around for his white horse, who is right there beside him, it being obvious that these two need someone to lean on besides each other. "Hiya, fella." He leans Becky against the horse's withers (the back part) then pulls himself sluggishly into the saddle. But, when he goes to help Becky up behind him, she's gone...on her knees, retching onto the ground. The horse prances daintily away from her...being helpful doesn't extend to getting puked on.

"Here now, gal. What's this? I didn't know ya were sick." He dismounts and goes to her.

"Oh God..." she gasps between heaves. "Oh God, I can't...believe this is...happening...."

Faro kneels beside her. "Jus' nerves, I 'spect."

"--poor Becky--"

"--no need...we'll find her. Them caps wasn't powerful 'nuf ta to do any real--"

"--her heart condition--

"--gen'lly they stays again pretty close ta home--"

"--and you two were gone so long--"

"--sorry but--"

"--five years of worry and--"

"--thet long, huh? I don't pay no attention to--"

"--lately it seems I'm sick every--"

"--we'll git Doc Lamb to look--"

"--morning."

"Huh?" Faro doesn't talk unless he has something to say, so instead of talking he hands Becky his overused bandana to wipe her mouth on. The horse hopes they'll bury it when she's done. This hanky's been used enough.

"Ever' mornin'? Sick?" is what Faro finally has to say.

Becky wipes her mouth. "It seems that way--" She gets shakily to her feet, still clutching the bandana. The horse eyes it warily.

Faro mounts up. "Mornin' sickness?" He clears his stirrup and extends a hand to her.

Becky blows her nose. "No...that's impossible." She grasps Faro's hand and puts her foot in the stirrup, ready to mount the horse. "I can't be preg--"

With an alarmed whinny, the horse shies away. Discipline be hanged! Training be damned! Did you see what was in that hand she was going to put on his rump? The bandana!

"Whoa!" Faro hollers. But, it's too late. The wonderful horse bucks left and Becky falls backward, and Faro, sitting on one and holding hands with the other, is left with nothing to sit on and nothing to hold onto. "Oof! Ow!"

Becky tumbles back into the dirt, where the horse thinks she belongs. "Ouch!" The soggy bandana is now encrusted with dirt and pieces of Wyoming's scarce vegetation and an ant. Even Becky finds it revolting. She flips it away beneath a sagebrush.

Faro, on his butt in the dust, looks reproachfully at his horse. So does Becky. The horse looks reproachfully at the hanky. (Yeah right, horse. Blame it on a piece of cloth.)

"How in hell am I supposed to get pregnant...from a carrot?"

Good point. Becky has been in Palm Springs to do penance for her earlier life as Harvey's mistress. There've been no men at all in her life for fifteen years...except for Faro's infrequent and platonic presence. Becky has learned to be happy as Becky's mom, and doesn't need to be hitting the sack with guys at trade shows or guys with wives already or guys like Jonathan, who just fall for her hook, line and sinker (of which there are plenty in Palm Springs, as you can imagine). Being celibate isn't as bad as she thought it'd be, either, thanks to her sister's book on solo orgasm, and an entire vegetable garden from which to pick--(uh...some things are best kept to yourself, Becky). So, Faro's suggestion that she might be suffering from pregnancy is impossible and ludicrous and offensive.

"Or maybe a beet?"

Faro looks at her with disgust. He doesn't want to hear about her and the vegetables any more than we do.

"--'course not," he says. "...a ricochet."

(Oh, yeah...we forgot about those.)

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